


Save up all the days

by orphan_account



Series: Hipstervengers [1]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Alternate Universe - Hipsters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or “Have you ever seen so much ironic facial hair in such a small space?” (Hipster/Coffee Shop AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save up all the days

    Winter seemed to hit Brooklyn overnight as October gave way to November: the temperature plummeted, flakes of snow beginning to fall over the skyline. Despite being bundled up in a thick duffle coat and scarf, Steve shivered as he stood on the sidewalk outside Old Glory, rummaging in his pockets for the keys. He hated opening up during the colder months, when it was still dark outside at 7 am, and so chilly even inside that his breath was visible. But Clint was hopeless at waking up early enough to open, and Thor was even worse, so it almost always fell to Steve.  
  
    As he made his way inside, Steve rushed to flick the lights and heating on. The dark, empty coffee shop was barely warmer than it was outside, but he peeled off some of his layers and hung up his outdoor clothes in the back room. Within a few minutes, it would start to heat up, and it already felt warmer with the lights on. Soon, the coffee shop would be filled with people, desperate for their pre-work caffeine fix.  
  
    It was a decent-sized space, in part of an old converted warehouse. The exposed brick walls were decorated with local photographers’ work; the dark oak floorboards worn and scratched with age, a few paint splatters here and there from the building’s many redecorations. Instead of matching furniture, the tables and chairs were raided from various yard sales and thrift stores, in an effortless mish-mash of styles and colours. Steve had opened the place himself within a year of finishing art school with the last of his army pay, and in the intervening years, it had flourished.  
  
    Steve stooped down by the wood burner in the writer’s corner - so nicknamed because at any one time during opening hours the tables there were occupied by at least three people scribbling in moleskines or tapping away on laptops, working on novels or poetry. They were a good crowd mostly, staying for hours at a time with a huge mug of coffee which generally went cold before it was finished. Actually, that was how they had met Natasha, who was now such a prominent member of the group, they wondered how they had ever got on without her. She was an astonishingly good writer too, with her first novel about to be published: a thought-provoking story about a tough female assassin with a shady past. Steve suspected it was at least semi-autobiographical, but didn‘t like to ask.  
  
    When the chairs were taken down from the tables, and a fire was crackling in the wood burner, Steve filtered through the first batch of organic coffee, leaning against the counter. He inhaled the familiar smell of coffee beans, selecting a record to put on the sound system. Humming along to _Castaways and Cutouts_ , Steve took the chairs down from the tables and waited for the morning rush to commence.  
  
    Before long, both Natasha and Thor’s brother, Loki, were sat at the counter. Natasha, her red hair in a scruffy knot at the nape of her neck and only her ink-stained fingertips visible beneath the sleeves of her oversized sweater, sat with a pastry and a soy latte, Loki with just a black Americano. Steve was only half listening as Loki raved about the gig he and Thor attended last night, since he had already heard the same story by way of a 2am phone call from a very drunk - but very enthusiastic - Thor, albeit less coherently. By contrast, Natasha listened intently, interjecting the occasional sceptical criticism (‘I liked their first album, but you can’t tell me they haven’t sold out.’)  
  
    “Anyway,” Natasha said as Loki finished his story and took a large sip of coffee. “Steve, how’s the art coming on? My editor’s driving me crazy with all these fucking cover suggestions. I swear, if _Black Widow_ ends up with a photograph of some woman’s leather-clad ass on the front, I’ll sue.” She reached over to thump Loki on the back as he laughed and almost choked on his coffee.  
  
    Steve avoided Natasha‘s eye, a guilty look on his face. “I’m getting there...” he replied, busying himself with the coffee machine.  
  
    “You haven’t started, have you?”  
  
    “Sorry, Nat,” Steve said sheepishly. “I’m having a hard time deciding what to do.” The Black Widow was such an enigmatic character, his attempts at trying to capture her on paper had been unsuccessful so far, and having never been to Russia, or outside the USA at all actually, he didn’t even know where to start on a landscape.  
  
    Finishing a mouthful of pastry, Natasha smiled and shook her head. “It’s okay. There’s still time,” she said. “I know whatever you come up with will be awesome. I‘ll remember you when I‘m famous.” Nat added jokingly.  
  
    Loki, who had finished his coffee and had been listening to the exchange with interest, leant forward across the counter to stage-whisper to Steve, a smirk twisting his lips. “Now who’s the sell-out?” This earned him another thump on the back from Nat, and stifling a laugh, Steve made a quick getaway, going to collect a couple of empty cups, leaving his friends to bicker.  
  
    Regardless of how frequently they disagreed, Loki and Natasha actually got on very well, Natasha having gained his grudging respect after completely outsmarting him during their first meeting. Respect had quickly developed into the kind of friendship which gave Nat almost complete immunity to Loki’s frequent pranks. Steve was still kind of annoyed about the time last Summer when the windows and doors of Old Glory had mysteriously been unlocked and propped open after Steve closed up shop. It had been a nightmare trying to chase all the pigeons back outside, and it took days to clean up all the bird seed.  
  
    As Steve returned to his post behind the counter, the bell above the door rang, and with it came a gust of freezing cold air from the street outside, prompting those sat nearest to heckle the newcomer (“Close the fucking door, dude!”) The newcomer, however, looked unfazed, taking his time to hold the door open for the guy following him inside.  
  
    “Oh man, this place is like hipster central,” the guy complained in a very audible murmur to his friend. “Have you ever seen so much ironic facial hair in such a small space?”  
  
    Steve glanced up at this, and suppressed a laugh. The guy had the most ridiculous goatee he’d ever seen, with artfully dishevelled hair and a sceptical smirk. His friend, meanwhile, was shorter, with a pair of black framed wayfarers, his eyes behind them lighting up in earnest as he glimpsed the communal bookshelf, stocked with everything from _1984_ to Nietzsche to _Yoga: Ten Steps to Serenity_. They sidled up to the counter, the first guy’s confident swagger at odds with his friend’s self-conscious shuffle.  
  
    The guy’s eyes fell on Natasha, who had concluded her berating of Loki to finish her pastry, and he leant on the counter beside her. “Hey,” he said. “Can I get you another coffee?” At this, Loki met Steve’s eyes, equal parts cautious and amused.  
  
    Natasha fixed the guy with a cool stare. “I’m good,” she answered, her voice relatively calm. “Thanks.”  
  
    “Oh, is Count Dracula here your boyfriend?” The guy nodded at Loki, whose eyes narrowed although he said nothing.  
  
    “No,” was Natasha’s simple reply, and she looked away.  
  
    “I’m Tony Stark,” the guy said, extending his hand, which Natasha did not take. Tony’s friend stood awkwardly at his side, his fingers twitching uncomfortably where they rested on the coffee-stained wooden surface of the counter.  
  
    “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Natasha said, hostility creeping into her voice. It did mean something to Steve actually. More than half of the coffee shop’s regular customers often came in sporting the latest Stark laptops or tablets, and the cell phone in Steve’s back pocket was Stark made, although it was a pretty old model.  
  
    Clearing his throat, Steve stood by the till and fixed Tony with a stare. “Hey, guys,” Steve said loudly. “Can I take your order?”  
  
    Tony’s gaze shifted only briefly from Natasha to Steve. “Double espresso,” Tony said, taking one of the two vacant barstools and gesturing for his friend to take the other. “Bruce?”  
  
    “Could I get a ginseng tea,” Bruce asked, with much more politeness than his friend. “And an apple-cinnamon muffin?” His voice was a little soft and hesitant, and Steve wondered how on earth these two men could be friends. Opposites attracted, he guessed. Bruce made a vague show of protest as Tony slapped a twenty down on the counter.  
  
    After putting the money through the till, Steve tried to give Tony‘s change back. Bruce took it from him with a faint smile.  
  
    “He doesn’t like to be handed things,” Bruce explained, tucking the ten into Tony’s jacket pocket and dropping the remaining dollar bills and coins into the tips jar.  
  
    “Steve,” Loki said loudly over the hiss of the coffee  machine as Steve prepared the drinks. “I’ve got to get to work, I’ll see you later.” Loki worked in a small independent record store, which was conveniently situated just across the road. He came to Old Glory on his breaks, at least twice a day for around half an hour at a time, the majority of which he spent complaining about the trauma of working in retail. Standing up, Loki wound his patterned scarf around his neck a few times and shrugged into his long black coat. Beside him, Natasha slipped down from her barstool and picked up her satchel from the floor.  
  
    “I’ll come with you,” Natasha said. “See you, Cap. Tell Clint I said hi, okay?” Loki held Nat’s coat out for her courteously and raised a hand in farewell in Steve’s direction.  
  
    Tony, who had been tapping away on his cell phone watched Natasha leave. “I’ll get you that coffee next time,” he called after her, to which she flipped him off in reply. Shrugging, Tony looked back at his phone. “She’s playing hard to get.”  
  
    Bruce snorted at that, before thanking Steve as he set a mug of tea in front of him. He gazed appreciatively around the walls of the café, blinking at the shelf full of oddly shaped pottery, the vintage map of Seattle, and the stacks of chipped, mismatched mugs (again, salvaged from yard sales and thrift stores). “This is a nice place,” Bruce said to Steve.  
  
    “Thanks,” Steve replied. “It’s not much, but I’m proud of it.”  
  
    Tony’s eyes flicked up at this, subjecting Steve to an appraising stare. Apparently he was worth a second look now he owned the place, Steve thought wryly. Tony’s eyes didn’t return to his phone, but instead swept across Steve‘s broad shoulders and vintage college sweater. “Yes?” Steve prompted, perhaps not as politely as he ought to have spoken to a customer, but the guy’s tactless hitting on Natasha had made him wary. Besides, if he thought he could come in here and be rude to everyone just because he was rich and famous, Tony had another think coming.  
  
    “You know, Abercrombie,” Tony began with a smug grin. “You don’t really look like the kind of guy who’d own a hipster-filled café in Williamsburg. Let me guess, army didn’t want you so you decided to stick it to the man?”  
  
    Ignoring Tony’s sarcastic dig, Steve held his ground, his blue eyes fixed on Tony’s brown ones. “Something like that,” he replied, in what he hoped was a fairly neutral tone.  
  
    Both men maintained eye contact, apparently neither of them wanted to admit defeat. The soft, awkward noise of a throat being cleared solved that problem though. Tony abruptly looked sideways at Bruce; Steve shook his head slightly before noticing the girl hovering by the muffin counter and going to serve her. He had automatically, and somewhat unwillingly, tensed into a defensive stance after the brief confrontation, and relaxed with some effort.  
  
    Ignoring Tony and Bruce’s perfectly audible conversation in the background, Steve gave his full attention to the girl, probably bewildering her with the energetic description of each muffin in turn. As she walked back to her seat, chocolate muffin and mug of tea in hand, she looked back at Steve from beneath her choppy blonde haircut with a shy smile.  
  
    “Oh look,” came the mocking voice from the other end of the bar. “Ken’s found himself a Barbie.”  
  
    Despite himself, Steve felt a hot blush creeping up his neck. To distract himself from the possibility of starting an argument, he went on another cup-run, but he cut it short in order to avoid the blonde girl, who kept sneaking glances up at him. She looked like a nice girl, Steve thought, and he didn’t want to lead her on, especially not after... No, he wasn’t going to think about that right now.  
  
    Thankfully, when Steve got back to the counter, and had served a couple of new customers, Bruce and Tony were getting ready to leave.  
  
    “Love to stay, Hollister,” Tony said, already back in his expensive-looking jacket. “But you know, places to go, people to see.”  
  
    “I’m sure we’ll be back soon,” Bruce added, pulling on a glove.  
  
    Steve gave a genuine smile at this, and held out his hand across the counter. “Nice to meet you - Bruce, was it?” he confirmed, Bruce returning Steve’s handshake more firmly than Steve would have expected. “I’m Steve. Come back any time, there‘s always something going on.”  
  
    Tony gave a snort of laughter. “What, competitions for the most pretentious douchebag in Brooklyn?” he suggested, scathingly.  
  
    “Why, are you thinking of entering?” Steve said pleasantly.  
  
    After another short laugh, Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Love to, but I live in Manhattan. Besides, gotta give the other guys a chance, you know?”  
  
    “Well, there’s a gig tonight, actually,” Steve said, turning his attention back to Bruce, and ignored Tony’s exaggerated eye-roll at this. “If you’re free, it’s going to be good. You should both come.” He added, looking back at Tony, issuing an unspoken challenge.  
  
    As Bruce opened his mouth to speak, Tony spoke over him. “Sure thing, babe,” he said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”  
  
    An amused expression on his face, Bruce bade goodbye to Steve and he followed Tony from the shop, hands in pockets. On the way out, they passed a sleepy-looking Clint, pushing open the door and loping over to Steve.  
  
    “Hey, Clint,” Steve said, breaking his gaze from Tony and Bruce’s backs to look at the man sliding behind the counter next to him. “No jacket?”  
  
    Shaking his head and making himself his preferred drink, which was approximately one part milky coffee to three parts syrup, Clint gestured to his clothes. “No, man, I’m wearing like four layers of flannel, here,” he said. “Who was that?”  
  
    “Who?”  
  
    “Hipster-dum and Hipster-dee,” Clint replied scathingly. “You were doing your Captain face again.”  
  
    “Was not,” Steve mumbled, before shying away from Clint’s accusing stare. “It’s nothing. Natasha said hi.”

  
  
                                                                                            « x x x »

  
      
    Several hours later, the lights were down and the whole place smelled like cigarettes and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Due to popular demand, Sif and the Warriors Three had played two extra songs after they finished the set-list. They were friends of Thor’s from college or somewhere, and had played at Old Glory before, and had built up quite a following in the New York area. Their sound was a cross between Modest Mouse and Crystal Castles with creative, overtly feminist lyrics penned by Sif herself. Not long after they had finished playing, Natasha went over to engage Sif in conversation regarding said lyrics, by which she was wholeheartedly impressed.  
  
    To Steve’s slight surprise, Bruce and Tony actually _had_ turned up, and after a brief, awkward introduction, they had been cheerily admitted into the fold. Although almost everyone had left about an hour ago, and the band had packed up and gone within another half an hour after that, Steve’s friends showed no signs of wanting to leave any time soon. That was fine with him, even if it meant closing late and opening up extra early tomorrow to clean up anything left behind.  
  
    After the band left, Loki, Natasha and Clint had stepped out into the tiny yard just outside the back door for cigarettes, using a cracked coffee mug as an ash tray. There was a wobbly table and a couple of old chairs out there, stuff from the café that had been replaced and hadn’t been thrown away yet. In no time at all, everyone else had migrated outside too, pulling extra chairs with them, crowding into the small yard and continuing their loud conversations.  
  
    Despite what Tony referred to as his ‘misunderstanding’ with Natasha earlier, all had been forgotten, with Natasha graciously accepting an extremely long-winded apology and Tony’s promise of a friendly coffee all the same. Clint, his arm draped casually across the back of Natasha’s chair, had eyed Tony suspiciously at this, and Loki was as wary of Tony as he had been before.  
  
    Although Bruce had been quiet for much of the evening, Thor’s good natured conversation was beginning to draw him out of his shell. But, that was Thor. Impossible not to get along with.  
  
    In fact, it was astonishing how easily Tony and Bruce began to fit in with the group, Tony’s quick witted comebacks making everyone laugh openly. Even the corner of Loki’s mouth twitched up in a slight smile once or twice.  
  
    “So, what did you think of the music?” Steve asked Tony, who was lounging in an armchair he had dragged outside from the writer’s corner. He’d adamantly refused a bottle of PBR in favour of some scotch Steve had managed to dig out from a cupboard in the back room, and was now clutching a glass of it between his fingertips.  
  
    “Well, it wasn’t AC/DC, but...” Tony began, before he stopped at the almost eerie way everyone’s heads swivelled to look at him in unison. “What?”  
  
    “I can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a compliment or a complaint,” Loki said derisively, after a beat of silence.  
  
    “AC/DC?” Clint scoffed, after a brief uncomfortable silence. “You can’t be serious, man.”  
  
    Tony scowled. “You can’t be serious. Just because people actually listen to their music, that makes them too _mainstream_ to be worth a damn?”  
  
    Loki opened his mouth to argue, or make another scathing comment, but Thor placed a firm hand on his brother’s forearm to quiet him.  
  
    “Quite right,” Thor agreed, with his customary wide grin, in an attempt to diffuse the tension. “But Sif and the Three were golden as always.” Loki rolled his eyes, his mouth silently forming the word ‘golden’, as if he were mentally striking the word from his own vocabulary. “I remember when my friends and I were in college, Sif begged me to join them-”  
  
    “Don’t stretch the truth, brother,” Loki chided him, though he didn’t remove Thor’s palm from where it rested on his arm. “If I recall correctly, she merely wondered if you’d like to join, but retracted the sentiment the moment she heard your caterwauling.”  
  
    “Well, I will concede that,” Thor admitted, which made everyone laugh.  
  
    “Do they always talk like that?” Tony asked Steve, as the rest of the group broke off back into their own conversations. “Or is it some lame hipster thing I don’t understand?”  
  
    Steve took a sip of beer and grinned. “You know, for someone who claims to hate hipsters so much, you sure act and look the part,” Steve said, smiling slightly at Tony‘s scowl. “But yes, they always talk like that.”  
  
    “Hm, sounds exhausting,” Tony replied and finished his drink.    
  
    Meanwhile, Bruce was sat with Natasha, animatedly telling her about his recent volunteering trip to Calcutta, to which she listened with genuine interest. Steve knew Natasha had done a lot of travelling - the vivid descriptions of the various places featured in her novel were testament to that - but didn’t know if she’d been to India or not. There was a lot he didn’t know about Natasha actually, but instead of that making him suspicious, or even curious, he accepted it without protest. If she wanted to tell them, she would. There were certainly plenty of things Steve himself didn’t feel comfortable talking about yet.  
  
    “Bruce is getting on well with everyone,” Steve said, and nodded in their direction.  
  
    “And I’m not?” Tony asked in mock-outrage, but his face quickly returned to a fond expression as he watched Bruce. “Yeah, he’s a great guy.”  
  
    “And you’re not?” Steve countered.  
  
    Tony’s expression didn’t change as he shook his head. “No,” he said simply.  
  
    “I don’t know, you seem pretty great to me,” Steve said, without thinking. Catching sight of Tony’s raised eyebrows, he blushed furiously, trying to recover himself. “I just meant - I meant, don’t be too hard on yourself. I mean, you were kind of a jerk earlier, but... you know, you’re an okay guy really, when you get past all the... You know what I mean.”  
  
    “Gee, thanks, Joe College,” Tony said, with a playful tug at the sleeve of Steve’s letterman sweater. “You’re pretty great, yourself.”  
  
    “Thanks,” Steve replied, and his face broke into what was probably a ridiculously goofy grin. He stared at Tony for a second, until Clint’s abrupt snort of laughter made him turn away suddenly.  
  
    “Oh my God, listen to you two, would you?” Clint said with a laugh. “You could cut the homoerotic tension in here with a fucking _knife_ , man. Stop before I pass out from all the _Brokeback_.”


End file.
